


Surrender

by ClementineStarling



Category: Body of Lies (2008)
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, Handcuffs, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 09:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6148723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger freezes the moment the cuffs snap shut with a metallic <em>click</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surrender

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unsettled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/gifts).



> Fill for the prompt: "Roger has understandable fears about being tied up. Hani doesn't care."
> 
> Originally card!fic that I expanded to about triple length. Not that this has led to any sort of plot. Lol.
> 
> Just in case anyone comes along who is put off by this: it's basically a take on the "fuck it all better"-trope, ergo nothing to try at home, not SSC at all, and Hani is a bastard. Be warned for noncon-elements and totally irresponsible behaviour.

Roger freezes the moment the cuffs snap shut with a metallic _click_.

He's been wiggling under Hani's weight with mounting enthusiasm, arching into him as Hani pinned his wrists over his head, eager for more, eager for anything Hani would give him, anything but this.

“Hani?” He can't disguise the tremble of panic sneaking into the name. There is something about being tied up, vulnerable and helpless, that he cannot bear, not even when he's with Hani. Being held down, that's different. Although even then he would prefer to be _ordered_ not to move. Physical restraint always washes up memories that should better stay buried, and he'd rather _choose_ to be good for Hani, keep quiet and still of his own accord. But then he remembers how he has failed at this in the past, lost control when he shouldn't have. And he should have known that for all his patience, it'd only be a matter of time until Hani would adopt other measures

“Hush,” Hani says, a soft whisper against his ear,“It's all right my dear, don't worry.” He leans back to take a good look at his handiwork. It is obvious from the hint of smugness in his smile that he knows, what he is doing to Roger, that he is doing it on purpose, just to watch him squirm. It does not help in the least to ease his distress. 

“Please, Hani,” Roger has a hard time keeping the whine out of his voice. “Please take them off.”  
He already feels the surge of half-suppressed memories, an unstoppable tide rolling towards him, days of torture, nights of fear, the past coming alive again, its taste salty and stale on his tongue. Smothering. “Hani?!” he says one last time before the wave pulls him under. 

The metal bites angrily into Roger's skin as he struggles against it, tugs and tears, mindless in his panic. Naturally the cuffs won't budge. If they were rope, he'd perhaps stand a chance, but steel? Steel will sooner break bones and slice through flesh than yield. Which is an insight that does nothing to calm him, on the contrary, it just adds to the frenzy, makes Roger fight all the harder. 

It's only when Hani puts his hands over the metal, that he stills.

“Breathe,” Hani says and Roger obeys, gasps for breath, greedy gulps of air instead of shallow pants, the sudden rush of oxygen dizzying. And Hani waits for him to relax, the warm touch of his fingers the very anchor of Roger's existence. He can almost take it like this – with Hani looming over him, watching – just as Hani knew he would. Some of Hani's confidence must have rubbed off on him, and he manages to stay calm, when Hani withdraws one of his hands to trail his fingertips gently over the inside of Roger's arm, down over his collarbone, to where hard muscle is pressing against the soft skin. 

The terror is still simmering beneath the surface, ready to swallow him again if he's not careful, so he concentrates on the caress, how the firm pads of Hani's fingers exploring his body, as though it were all new and foreign. As though Hani didn't know how Roger's brain will turn into mush when he's playing with his nipples, drawing circle upon circle around the tender skin. It even works now, with the flutter of panic hardly contained in his chest; here and there the maddening pattern is interrupted by a quick flick or short pinch of fingernails, just enough variation to keep him in the moment. 

It distracts him too easily though, should perhaps warn him that the reprieve won't last, but somehow Roger is beyond caring.

When he speaks Hani's name this time, it's with another kind of desperation, the sort that makes Hani laugh, a low, amused chuckle Roger has come to love and hate in equal measure. Because it means he will tease him, relentlessly, but also that eventually his reward will be worth all the torment, if only Roger can soften his heart with frantic pleading. 

Then Hani takes his other hand away too, and there is only bare metal around his skin, and his wrists chafe against the cuffs again as he tries to strain towards Hani's touch. It's still uncomfortable but he can manage, he thinks, he hopes; perhaps Hani's fingers wrapped around him will make the restraint tolerable. But just now those fingers are still roaming his body, glide over the hollow of his stomach, along the patch of coarse hair pointing so clearly downwards, but they stubbornly evade his cock in their movement, however prettily Roger tries to twist and turn towards them; instead they trail over his thighs, tracing the outlines of tendons and bones straining against skin.

There is some part of him that recognises this sort of despair, even through the haze of desire, some part that cannot forget the metal around his wrists, and how intrinsically it is connected to pain and fear, and if Hani does not increase his efforts, if, God forbid, he even stopped touching him, Roger knows what awaits him: a deep black pit that lurks in his mind, a well of nightmares, and he can't go there again, simply _can't_ , so he begins to beg in earnest, a prayer to his lord, and after endless minutes, Hani is indeed merciful.

He is still fully dressed, so very much in control, as he kneels between Roger's legs. His shirt is a bit crumpled, the top buttons open, just enough to allow for a mouthwatering slice of tanned skin to peek through the gap, and his tie is hanging loose around his collar, but his trousers are still sharp, smooth, cool fabric against the heated skin of Roger's thighs. Roger wants more of this, wants it all. Wants to see Hani lose his composure, wants him to grow rough and careless in his passion.

The sound of his belt buckle being undone is dreadful though, terrible and terribly exciting, how it resonates with the handcuffs biting into his skin, Roger can almost taste the metal in his mouth. But he can also see how he is still hard and leaking, his cock bobbing impatiently against his stomach, trickling precum, even though somehow it feels as if he is outside his body, watching himself, only distantly connected to the sensations: The squirming of his stomach, the awful surge of arousal at the sight of Hani opening his trousers.

He wants him, and he wants to hide, be somewhere else, not bound to this bed, not caught in this internal battle of fear and desire. He considers closing his eyes, but the darkness won't be gentle, will be even worse than this, instead he turns his head, stares blindly into the room.

Hani won't let him drift off though. “Stay with me,” he says, catching Roger's jaw and forcing him to look at him, witness the magic Hani works, the transformation of anguish into lust.

The pleasure is white hot when Hani's gorgeous fingers finally close around his cock, but so is the discomfort at the sudden intrusion, when Hani pushes into him at the same time without further preparation. Roger should be ready by now, loose and pliant, has been used like this often enough, but never in a state of hardly subdued panic. His whole body is tense, not the willing lush heat, Hani wants, Hani _deserves_. 

Something Hani must have noticed too, because he stills inside him. “Let me have you, Roger,” he whispers, demand and plea at once, and when Roger moans in response, he sets a slow, tentative rhythm, rocking gently into him, his hand barely more than a loose curl of fingers around his cock. “Let me,” he repeats, so much softness in voice now, it makes Roger's heart melt. “Submit to me. Surrender.” As if Hani could have any doubts that he owns him already, body and soul. 

Hani rubs his thumb over the slick head of Roger's prick, a slow, slow circle matching the shallow thrusts of his cock, and Roger can't help the broken little noises that escape him between a distraught murmur of _yes yes yes please_. It's only when Hani deepens his thrusts, begins to push inside him in earnest, in long, thorough strokes, that he realises his resistance has disappeared; his body welcomes Hani just as it's supposed to, with the sweet stretch of flesh, the delicious shudders and sparks of pleasure, as Hani brushes himself against his prostate, pulls at him with the perfect amount of pressure, the perfect twist of his hand.

How Roger would love to touch him, run his hands through Hani's hair, claw at his shoulders, feel the flex of muscles in his back, draw him closer, make him push deeper, fuck him harder, and it's a torment that he can't, but the good kind of torment, not the one tinged with terror and nightmares. Not being able to move allows him to concentrate on the sheer rapture unfurling inside him, a delightful weakness that spreads further and further through his limbs and crawls over his skin like fever chills. He tries to wrap his legs around Hani's, tries to get him to kiss him, offering his mouth, wet and tempting, but Hani presses him back into the pillows, hand against his windpipe and tuts, softly. 

“Patience,” he says, only slightly breathless. “Wait for what I'll give you.”

And suddenly Roger is almost thankful for the restraints that keep him in check, that ensure he has to take whatever Hani gives him, receive every sensation Hani chooses to inflict upon him, sensations that aren't pain or fear, only the sweetest kind of cruelty, the distress of overwrought senses, the too good and too much of fabric on naked skin and a hand on his cock and Hani thrusting into him.

After a while the cuffs become a lifeline. The one thing that's entirely solid and real, that's not just pleasure and dream-stuff, the lazy back and forth, push and pull of their bodies. Every now and then, Roger tugs at the bonds, nearly playfully, to convince himself, the metal still hurts and his wrists are still sour from his previous struggling, but the discomfort almost immediately fades and changes, transforms itself into mere sensation, pure and simple and intoxicating. Whatever he feels, it's mingling with the overpowering stimulation of being fucked and stroked at the same time.

Hani uses him like a toy, and there is nothing he could do about it, even if he wanted, but Roger finds he doesn't want to resist anymore, not one single part of him, that it is all right after all to be bound for Hani's pleasure, that he even enjoys it, and he begins to understand the point of their exercise.

Hani must have read his mind, because he smiles and leans down to kiss him at last, an almost gentle kiss, given the height of their passion, and that's when Roger looses it, the warm slick slide of Hani's tongue just too much to bear. And when he thrashes against Hani in the throes of orgasm, it's not an act of resistance anymore but unconditional surrender.


End file.
